


Six Feet From the Edge

by dracoqueen22



Series: Six Feet From the Edge [3]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Angst, Angst and Fluff, Dysfunctional Family, Ethical Dilemmas, M/M, Moral Dilemmas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-11
Updated: 2014-02-11
Packaged: 2018-01-11 22:18:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1178623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dracoqueen22/pseuds/dracoqueen22
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It isn't ideals or the Autobot way that keep Jazz fighting anymore. It's desperation to keep his Autobots alive, and most especially, Sunstreaker.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Six Feet From the Edge

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fuzipenguin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fuzipenguin/gifts).



> For fuzipenguin who gave me the prompt Jazz/Sunstreaker, take me down

Jazz takes the steps two at a time, leaps to the landing and skids to a stop in front of the cell. Despite the bounce to his step, there's a frown on his face and his energy field is tightly wound, close to his frame.  
  
He is anything but pleased at the moment, though by now, he should be used to this.  
  
“It's not my fault,” comes the argument before Jazz can even open his mouth.  
  
He tips his helm toward the one guard on duty – Trailbreaker – and wordlessly tells the mech to hit the road. Not that Trailbreaker needs any encouragement; he's already halfway out of the brig.  
  
“So,” Jazz says, taking a skipping step closer to the energy bars, planting his hands on his hips. “I suppose your fist accidentally collided with Mirage's face. He must have run into it then?”  
  
A sullen rumble of engines is punctuated with an amused burst of an energy field. “Yeah. Must have.”  
  
“Ten times?”  
  
“Oh, was that it? I could've sworn there were more.” The prisoner grins, better a smirk. “You know how clumsy he can be.”  
  
Jazz bites back a sigh. “My top special operations mech with a talent for creeping around unseen is clumsy?” He rolls his helm, pinning the accused with a stare. “Sunny, that's not going to fly with Prowl and you know it.”  
  
“It will if it comes from you.”  
  
“Not even.”  
  
“Jazz--”  
  
“No.” His visor brightens, emotion seething beneath the surface. “No, you listen to me. You want to end up in the brig for the rest of your functioning, fine, but you're not goin' to take me down with you.”  
  
Sunstreaker's optics cycle down, pinning Jazz with a sullen look. “You giving up on me, too, Jazz? Is that it?”  
  
Oh, no he didn't go there.  
  
“Don't turn this around on me!” Jazz snaps, every piece of armor clamping down tight. He's fragging tired of Sunstreaker using this particular gambit. “I'm not the one who's been brigged for infighting for the third time this month!”  
  
His vocals echo in the following silence. Jazz wonders if they'll have an impact this time, when they haven’t so many times before.  
  
Sunstreaker stares back at him, defiant and stubborn. Well, that's fine. Jazz is just as stubborn. He can stand here and stare back all day, or at least until Prime makes him give up and sends someone else to crack Sunny's issue. And that won't be fun for anyone.  
  
This, right here, is Sunstreaker's last chance to shape up. Otherwise, yeah, he's shipping out. Ultra Magnus and Elita-One will get to deal with him and Magnus is nowhere near as lenient as Optimus. But of them, Elita is the worst.  
  
Jazz shudders to think of it, and doesn't envy Sunstreaker that assignment. But it's not up to him. It's up to Sunny.  
  
He doesn't want to see Sunstreaker fall, but Jazz isn't sure there's anything he can do anymore to stop it. He's not sure if Sunstreaker wants the help. Or that Jazz can make any kind of difference.  
  
He sighs and lowers his tone. “Talk to me, Sunny. What's really going on?”  
  
His partner looks away, not even rising to the loathed nickname, and it's all the proof Jazz needs that something isn't right. Not that beating up on the local Autobot population wasn't the first. And not that something isn't generally right in Sunstreaker's helm either.  
  
Sunstreaker folds his arms, capitalizing on silence. Even in petulance, he's gorgeous, and maybe that's part of the problem. He's focused so much on being pretty on the outside, that it's easier to look past the nasty beneath. He'd been getting better, but lately, not so much.  
  
Jazz doesn't know who or what to blame, but he has his guesses. “Is this your way of getting my attention?” he asks.  
  
“I'm not a sparkling!” Sunstreaker snarls, hands snapping out of their fold and fisting at his side.  
  
“You're certainly acting like one!”  
  
More silence. Sunstreaker twitches.  
  
Jazz half turns away, rubbing his face with his palm and understanding why Optimus does it so much.  
  
No wonder Prowl asks Jazz why he's with Sunstreaker. No wonder Mirage and Bumblebee look at him like he's the craziest one of them all. Even Sideswipe doesn't get it and he's Sunny's twin, but only just.  
  
A decade later and Jazz isn't sure he gets it either. He only knows that every time he walks away, he comes back because what Sunstreaker has is everything Jazz wants, the whole package, inside and out.  
  
It doesn't make sense. Jazz supposes it doesn't have to.  
  
“I'll apologize.”  
  
Jazz's ventilations stall and he coughs them back into working order. “Come again?” he says, dropping his hand and staring through the bars.  
  
Sunstreaker grinds his gears. “You heard me.”  
  
“Yeah, but I don't believe it.”  
  
The minute mechanisms of Sunstreaker's mouth shift and clench. His field radiates guilt and something else, something that Jazz is going to need a lot more time to pick apart.  
  
Jazz steps closer to the bar, until he can detect the burned-energy scent of them. “You don't apologize,” he says.  
  
“Because I'm never wrong!”  
  
“Except this time?” Jazz prompts, and predictably, Sunstreaker opts for silence.  
  
Primus, it's like interrogating Soundwave. Next time Jazz needs to send in an Autobot who won't talk, he'll send Sunstreaker. He doubts the Cons'll get Sunny to speak any more than his allies will.  
  
“So you're not wrong,but you're going to apologize anyway?” Jazz huffs a ventilation that's just shy of amusement. “That's insincere and you know it. Prowl isn't gonna take any apology at face value. Neither will Prime. They're both fed up.”  
  
Fingers clench and unclench before Sunstreaker whirls around, shoulders hunched and helm ducked. On anyone else, Jazz would call that look shame but this is Sunstreaker here and there's very little that Sunstreaker regrets.  
  
“I don't want to go back to Cybertron,” he says.  
  
“And you can't keep apologizing, however insincerely, and assume it's going to be enough,” Jazz replies. “Ya gotta _change_ , mech. Or at least try to.”  
  
“I am!” Sunstreaker snaps, and there's a shrill edge of panic in his tone, one that Jazz is certain he's never heard his partner use before.  
  
Worry replaces half of his anger. Oh, the fury is still lingering, but when Sunstreaker starts to sound scared, well, that's unusual enough that Jazz is taken aback. He can count on one hand the number of times he's ever heard Sunstreaker panicked about anything and he's known Sunstreaker for a long, long time.  
  
Longer than the war even.  
  
He keys in his override code, letting the energy bars dissipate with an unappealing and vague after-scent like burnt plastic. Jazz steps into the cell, glancing once at the camera. He figures he's got one, maybe two minutes before his comm erupts with demands for what the frag he's doing. Maybe more if Prowl gets it and shuts Red Alert up.  
  
Sunstreaker's shaking. Oh, it's all but invisible to the untrained optic, but Jazz isn't what anyone would call untrained. There's a minute rattle to the frontliner's armor, and his hands are pulling in and out of slow fists.  
  
Jazz unfurls his energy field, careful to strip it of his anger, letting only the concern show. He knows better than to startle an agitated frontliner, and while he's taken Sunstreaker down on more occasions than he can count, Jazz doesn't emerge unscathed. He doesn't want a Ratchet Tantrum on top of the Prowl Lecture he's already got coming to him.  
  
He reaches, curling his hand around Sunstreaker's elbow, lightly at first and then with firmer pressure when Sunstreaker doesn't immediately jerk away. He takes it as permission, keeping his hold, circling around until he can face Sunstreaker.  
  
The frontliner's optics are dim, his lips pressed to a thin line. He's staring at the floor like it'll answer all the questions of the universe. Jazz can't sense anything from him, and holding his field in like that is probably what's making him shake.  
  
Just like Sunstreaker, determined to hide his weakness to the last, even if by doing so it reveals how close to the edge he really is.  
  
It's in moments like these that Jazz comes to hate Sideswipe. It's not his fault, anymore than it is Sunstreaker's, but it's almost instinctual to blame the half who's not having nearly as much difficulty adapting and functioning.  
  
They are brothers; they are twins. And apparently, that's all they are. Somewhere, out there in the universe, a cosmic law is broken. Family doesn't have to love family.  
  
Maybe someday, Sunstreaker will even tell Jazz why.  
  
He reaches up, placing a hand on Sunstreaker's chestplate, feeling the thrum of the strong spark beneath. “Sunstreaker...”  
  
The frontliner's helm dips further. “It hurts,” he murmurs, admission given in such a tiny voice that the cameras couldn't have picked it up, even if the microphone were on.  
  
What's left of Jazz's anger melts away because he gets it. Reason number one on his list has just been proven, and nine times out of ten, it's the cause.  
  
Spark-pain is no excuse, but it is an explanation.  
  
“I know,” Jazz says, and he reaches with his free hand, cupping Sunstreaker's face and bringing their forehelms into contact. “But beatin' up on Mirage ain't gonna solve it or make it go away.”  
  
Sunstreaker's field leaks free of his control, riddled with pain and guilt and yes, remorse. “I'm sorry.”  
  
This time, Jazz thinks he actually means it.  
  
“I'll talk ta Prime,” Jazz says. “But I can't promise anything.”  
  
A tremble rattles out from Sunstreaker's substructure, one he fails to conceal in time, not that Jazz would have missed it.  
  
And then, of course, his comm pings and Jazz doesn't need more than one guess to know who it is.  
_  
Jazz, you were not given leave to enter his cell_ , says Prowl, though he doesn't sound angry, just exasperated.  
  
_You told me to figure out what the frag's wrong with him and I'm doing it_ , Jazz snaps, anger slicking his armor down, clamping over his frame.  
  
And Sunstreaker, being the observant mech he is, notices immediately. He stiffens. “Jazz?”  
  
Prowl doesn't respond, but Jazz knows it for the warning it was. With much reluctance, he draws back from his partner, though he keeps his hand on Sunstreaker's faceplate. The gentle contact has always helped soothe Sunstreaker, even through memory purges.  
  
“Just command gettin' antsy,” Jazz replies with his trademark grin. “Nothin' to worry about, sweetspark. Sit tight. I'll be back.”  
  
He brushes his fingers over Sunstreaker's helm vent before he draws back. Sunstreaker doesn't protest, only watches him go with a faceplate carefully emptied of expression.  
  
Sunstreaker is very much aware of how much trouble he's in and that he's out of chances. He looks like a mech heading to death row and maybe, that's not far from the truth.  
  
Jazz cycles a ventilation and leaves a brig, reactivating the energy bars behind him.  
  
Time to face the firing squad.  
  
A long time ago he made a promise. It might be time to follow through.  
  


o0o0o

  
  
“You can't send him to Cybertron!” Jazz argues, feeling his anger rise and struggling to keep himself in check. Frustration threatens to win out.  
  
He feels as though he's fighting an unending battle and since that's exactly what he's already doing in this whole Autobot vs. Decepticon debacle, Jazz is not amused.  
  
“Can't is a strong term,” Prowl replies, calm and collected, with a nary a twitch to betray the undercurrent of tension rippling through the conference room. “I am perfectly capable of doing so. More than that, I am willing.”  
  
“It ain't gonna help him,” Jazz insists, palms flat on the table if only to keep himself from slamming them down in a fit of pique. “Ultra Magnus is even more strict, he doesn't get along with Springer, and putting Sunstreaker in the same building as Hot Rod is like asking for trouble. Don't even get me started on Arcee.” Or the dozen or so other Autobots at Ultra Magnus' disposal that won't understand Sunstreaker or even try to.  
  
Red Alert gives Jazz a flat look, tapping on his datapad. “He doesn't like anyone here either and if transferring him gets that through his helm, then I am in agreement with Prowl.”  
  
“It won't work,” Jazz says, shaking his helm. “It'll just make him worse.”  
  
“In which case there is only one option left to us,” Red Alert argues.  
  
“That is a last resort,” Prime reminds them, his firm tone rolling through the room. He's sitting back in his chair, watching and listening, but adding nothing to the discussion. As is usually the case, he prefers to hear all arguments before making a decision. “And I do mean last.”  
  
Red Alert's plating ruffles but he backs down. A small victory, Jazz supposes. He also can't blame Red either. Mirage isn't the only one who's ended up in Ratchet's care courtesy of Sunstreaker.  
  
“Transfer Sideswipe instead,” Jazz suggests.  
  
Exasperation causes tiny twitches in Prowl's door wings. “He behaves himself. Why should he be the one punished?”  
  
Jazz raises his orbital ridges, pinning Prowl with a flatness to this visor. “He blatantly disregards the rules every chance he gets. How is that good behavior?”  
  
“Well,” Ironhide drawls, finally adding his two creds worth. “He doesn't send fellow Autobots to the medbay. I consider that an improvement.”  
  
A steady staccato of fingers against the tabletop draws attention to Ratchet. “I don't think separating them is the answer. They should be together, encouraged to reconcile. Distance won't help.”  
  
“We cannot make that choice for them,” Prime says, threading his fingers together and resting his hands on the table. “If they choose to be separate, we cannot order otherwise.”  
  
Freedom is the right of all sentient beings, yes? Jazz can all but hear Prime's famous proclamation echoing around the conference room in reminder.  
  
“They are family,” Ratchet stresses, something in his engine giving a stressed rev. “And lucky enough to still have one.”  
  
Prime frowns, noticeable only in the way his optical ridges draw down. “Ratchet, this particular matter is not up for debate. We cannot and will not force a reconciliation. To do so would render it meaningless and immoral.”  
  
“Then I welcome all suggestions because I have none,” Prowl says stiffly, the air of someone throwing their hands up in a huff though without the action.  
  
Silence descends and Jazz feels the weight of it. He knows he's the center of attention, if only because of his fervent defense of his partner. He knows Prowl and Red Alert are exhausted and he can't blame them. He knows everyone wants answers and solutions but frag it, if the Autobots as a whole can't find one to end this slagging war, then small wonder they can't figure out what to do with Sunstreaker.  
  
Jazz lowers his helm, bracing himself against the table. “He's not a bad mech.”  
  
Ironhide snorts, a response he's picked up from Sparkplug. “He's rude, arrogant, self-centered, violent, and in my opinion, completely psychotic. He's two kliks from snapping and going on a rampage.”  
  
He has a point and Jazz knows that, too. None of it is a lie, though painful for the brutal truth.  
  
But, of course, Ironhide would only notice Sunstreaker's faults.  
  
“He's also fiercely protective, compassionate, and desperate for someone to believe in him,” Jazz says and lifts his helm, letting his visor track over every mech present, from the argumentative Prowl and Red Alert, to the eternally hopeful Ratchet, the disbelieving Ironhide, the silent Wheeljack, and the watchful Prime.  
  
These are the mechs who will decide Sunstreaker's fate. Jazz has to convince them. He has to help them see what he sees, to help them understand.  
  
Because if they can't believe in Sunstreaker, one of their own, how can peace with the Decepticons ever be achieved? And isn't that what they are fighting for?  
  
“Compassionate?” Red Alert repeats, and every inch of him is just shy of snorting disbelief.  
  
“If you spent half as much time watching him as you did judging him, you'd see it,” Jazz says, trying and failing not to sound snide.  
  
He feels, more than sees, their disbelief. Even Prime, with his eternal optimism, looks skeptical.  
  
Jazz sighs, rubbing his forehelm with his palm. Sunny might hate him for it, but he has to do it. He has to show them what they'll never see for themselves.  
  
“He's been helping Bee with his hand to hand on his downtime.” Of course, Bee never tells Sunstreaker that he doesn't need the help. “He listens to Bluestreak when no one else will. He taught the Dinobots how to paint. And last week, he was the only one who noticed that First Aid was glitching.”  
  
Silence follows his statement. He knows that Red Alert is probably accessing security archives to confirm his claims, but he'll find little proof. Sunstreaker only does good deeds when no one can see him.  
  
But he must have found something because Red Alert clutches his datapad a little closer, like a security blanket. “That doesn't--”  
  
Jazz ignores him, whirling toward Ratchet. “Who took that shot when Starscream made the mistake of aiming for you last month?”  
  
The medic squirms in his seat. “Sunstreaker,” he admits.  
  
Jazz turns his attention to Ironhide, readying an arsenal of situations. “Who pulled Cliffjumper back to the Autobot line when he fell behind?”  
  
Ironhide scowls a silent response, but that's all the confirmation Jazz needs. Especially since the level of hatred between Sunsreaker and Cliffjumper is legendary.  
  
Jazz whirls on Optimus, ready to strike the strongest blow. “Do you even know where you got that temporary fuel pump when yours got slagged?”  
  
No one on base could have supplied Optimus with a replacement, but in the heat of the moment, when supplies were limited and Ultra Magnus was out of contact, they had to rely on a miracle. Sunstreaker had a spare. He offered it. And for a temporary part to keep Optimus alive until they could get another, it worked.  
  
Ratchet releases a sigh of memory. Optimus dips his helm in acknowledgment.  
  
There isn't an Autobot on the Ark who wouldn't give his spark for Optimus. Sunstreaker had been the first to surrender a piece of his own frame.  
  
Jazz cycles a ventilation, letting that realization sink home.  
  
“Sunstreaker is a frontliner,” Jazz continues. “And he's fragging good at it. He's an Autobot by choice, knows how fragged up he is, and keeps trying anyway. And right now, he knows he's got two outcomes ahead of him. He's terrified.”  
  
Prowl draws himself up straight. “If he was so concerned, then he should have modified his behavior accordingly.”  
  
“It's not that simple,” Jazz argues, and bless Primus, Ratchet is at least nodding along with him. “If we had a trained psychologist then I'd have proof but we don't.”  
  
Red Alert leans forward. “Ratchet--”  
  
“I'm a surgeon for Primus' sake!” the medic snaps, temper flaring to the tune of the table and chairs rattling from his uncontrolled field. “I'm not slagging Primus. I don't know everything! I can fix a slagged processor but not what goes on inside it.”  
  
Prowl's doorwings hike upward. “Then what do you suggest?” he says stiffly. “As neither of my options are acceptable.”  
  
“No spark prison,” Prime says, more like reminds them. “This is non-negotiable.”  
  
“We must come to a solution. We cannot allow Sunstreaker's actions to continue,” Red Alert says.  
  
“Jazz?” Ironhide prompts, though there is at least reluctance in his tone now. “You got an idea?”  
  
Jazz sighs, rubbing his fingers over his forehelm, feeling the weight of expectation on his shoulders. He can't imagine what Sunstreaker's thinking, alone in that cell, knowing that command is debating his fate and believing no one is in his corner.  
  
Not even his partner, since Jazz had claimed as much earlier.  
  
“I'm biased,” Jazz admits because there's no way he can be impartial. Not anymore. “I can't make a fair choice.” He pauses, cycles a ventilation, and realizes there's really only one thing he can say. “But if Sunstreaker goes to Cybertron, so do I.”  
  
Stunned silence meets his declaration. Jazz pushes himself back from the table, standing straight, his arms folded under his bumper.  
  
“Jazz--”  
  
The first protest, of course, comes from Prowl.  
  
He holds up a hand, cutting the tactician off before he can even get started. “We've lost a lot. Gave up a lot. And the last thing I'm going to do is take away the one stable truth he has,” Jazz explains, finding it harder to draw the line between an admission and the truth. “Because then he really will break.”  
  
Ratchet sighs, leaning forward in his chair and scrubbing his face with his palm. “He shouldn't be so dependent on you.”  
  
“It's not dependence.” Jazz lowers his hand, fighting back a sigh of his own. “He doesn't obey me. I don't control him. But I do love him.” And there it is, that confession he's been holding back. Too late now. “Something his brother couldn't even do. And that's what matters to me.”  
  
The admission should feel like a weight on his shoulders, but somehow, it doesn't. As if holding in the truth had been a yoke around his neck.  
  
Sunstreaker isn't so much dragging Jazz down as he is freeing him. That realization is worth all the credits in the world to Jazz.  
  
He knows he's made the right choice.  
  
“Do what you want,” Jazz says. “It can't be up to me.”  
  
He leaves, without waiting for them or Prime to dismiss him, and is only half-surprised that no one tries to stop him. He doesn't look at anyone, only peripherally notices that Prowl is halfway to a processor meltdown, and exits the conference room.  
  
Outside, the Autobots are business as usual. Silverbolt and Blaster are in the command center, keeping an eye on Earth and the world at large, but the Decepticons were given a sound beating last week, so they should be quiet for a few more days. The world is largely unchanged, except for Jazz who feels as though everything has shifted.  
  
He cuts off his comm. He doesn't want to hear Prowl call him back or Red Alert try and convince him otherwise or Prime order him different. Not that he thinks Prime would, but Optimus has a way of asking that makes a mech feel obliged to accept.  
  
Jazz makes his way back to the brig. Trailbreaker never came back, but Sunstreaker's the only current tenant and he hasn't moved.  
  
Jazz hacks into the camera system, powering down the one that monitors Sunstreaker's cell. Red Alert's probably going to flip, but he wants some fragging privacy. They aren't going anywhere.  
  
Sunstreaker's sitting on the berth but at the sound of footsteps, he rises to his pedes, peering through the bars and only relaxing when he sees Jazz.  
  
“They're deliberating,” Jazz explains as he unkeys the bars and invites himself inside, letting the bars stay dispersed.  
  
Sunstreaker's shoulders sink and he slumps back onto the berth, hands in his lap.  
  
Jazz sits next to him, and isn't surprised when Sunstreaker tips himself over, laying his helm across Jazz's lap. It's an awkward position, but one Sunstreaker favors in moments of weakness, especially when Jazz strokes tiny circles over his helm vents.  
  
“Whatever they decide, I'm going with you,” Jazz says.  
  
Sunstreaker's ventilations skip a cycle. “Prime isn't going to allow that.” His energy field ripples, as though hesitating between offering and rescinding.  
  
“He won't have a choice.” Jazz's fingers trace the lines of each and every slat on Sunstreaker's vents, feeling the subtle vibrations of his partner beneath him.  
  
“I'm not going to drag you down, Jazz. You are important to the Autobots.”  
  
“Then are you going to tell me what Mirage did?”  
  
Sunstreaker shutters his optics, plating clamped down against his frame. “I'm not a snitch.”  
  
Which means Mirage is guilty of something. Jazz had already guessed as much. The once-noble can be protective of those he considers clade, which includes everyone in Special Ops.  
  
“This would be a lot easier if ya were,” Jazz says with a sigh. Then again, perhaps Sunstreaker has a point. Perhaps it doesn't matter how much he's provoked because he needs to learn to control his reactions.  
  
Even if Mirage is the one who should know better.  
  
Sunstreaker blows air from his vents with a dismissive huff. “Didn't you know? I don't know how to make anything easy.”  
  
He sounds bitter, Jazz thinks. Sunstreaker's not stupid and he's certainly not deaf. He knows he's not well-liked, he's heard the comments made both around the corner and in plain sight. He knows most of the Autobots would sooner see him punted off the Ark than continue to share common space.  
  
Frag, even Sunstreaker's own brother is guilty of expressing nothing short of contempt for him.  
  
Is it a small wonder that Sunstreaker's only become more belligerent and hostile? Why bother trying if it's never going to matter?  
  
Jazz brushes his fingers over the crown of Sunstreaker's helm. “Nothing's easy, Sunstreaker. Especially anything worth having.”  
  
Their relationship is the prime example of this. The interfacing is the easy part. The rest has taken lots and lots of work.  
  
Sunstreaker has issues. Lots of issues. Fortunately, Jazz has baggage of his own, though most of it isn't as obvious. Maybe this is how they've managed to find common ground together.  
  
Sunstreaker's lips curve in a soft smile. “I guess that's why I'm still here then,” he says, and there's a soft, but noticeable shift in his field.  
  
“Thanks,” Jazz replies in a dry tone. “I'm flattered.”  
  
“You should be.” Humor eases into the frontliner's filed, his smile growing. “Does a condemned mech get one last request?” His engine purrs, vibrating the narrow berth.  
  
Jazz bites back a chuckle. “I suppose he does. What does the prisoner have in mind?”  
  
“Merge with me?” he requests, a meek tone if it were anyone but Sunstreaker. Jazz isn't sure what to call this.  
  
Jazz's fingers trickle down, teasing a cable in Sunstreaker's neck and prompting a shiver. “I thought you'd never ask,” he purrs.  
  


o0o0o

  
  
Jazz stays online and lets Sunstreaker recharge, his engine softly purring and his frame ticking away latent heat. There's a softness in Sunstreaker that's only evident during recharge and Jazz must admit he has a fondness for it.  
  
They're on the floor, the berth too small for two frames especially one of Sunstreaker's size, and for once, Sunstreaker hadn't bitched about his paint. He'd been too worried about the future of his spark to care about the scuffs on his paint.  
  
Jazz can still feel the echoes of his partner, the worry and the shame and the self-recrimination. There's fear and longing, regret and so much anger. At himself, at his brother, at the war in general.  
  
Jazz tilts his head back against the wall, fingers idly stroking a calm pattern over Sunstreaker's chestplate and helm.  
  
He knows it sounds like a selfish ultimatum. If they send Sunstreaker away then Jazz goes, too. He knows it's just shy of going AWOL, as the humans put it. And he knows, Prime felt the sting of betrayal when Jazz said it.  
  
But they've been crammed in a civil war for millennia, one with no end in sight, and they are losing their soldiers to more than battle. Before the Ark crashed, Jazz lost count of how many they lost to suicide, convinced hope and Primus had abandoned them.  
  
Now they are so few, fewer still with every year they spend on Earth, endlessly clashing against the Decepticons because Prime won't do what is necessary and Megatron is so fragging crazy he won't do it either.  
  
Partnering with Sunstreaker had started out as a challenge, as a distraction. Jazz isn't sure when or how it evolved into more or when he started investing himself in the golden twin. Maybe he's confusing his affection for Sunstreaker with his desperation to save the frontliner, or maybe they are one and the same. He doesn't know about that either.  
  
All he knows is that this war isn't ending, he's so very tired, and he's not about to lose the last thing that's keeping him fighting. Because it isn't ideals anymore, or the Autobot way, or the drive to defeat the Decepticons. It's fighting to keep the rest of the Autobots alive, and especially, to protect this one.  
  
That's what Jazz has left. Even if it means going to Cybertron.  
  
He wonders who they will send to deliver the verdict.  
  
The mech perching just outside the cell, however, is not here to do so.  
  
“I didn't think Ratchet would have released you so soon.”  
  
“He doesn't know I'm gone.” Mirage shimmers into view, his expression devoid of emotion, but Jazz knows what that twitch in his helm vent means. He still sulks because Jazz can always tell when he's around, invisible or no. “I'm repaired.”  
  
Jazz rolls his helm, giving his subordinate a long, assessing look. The dents are gone, as are the cracks in his armor, but his paint remains scraped and scuffed. Jazz raises an orbital ridge.  
  
“Enough,” Mirage amends, and tilts his helm back, optics narrowing. “Choice or consequence?”  
  
“Choice.” Jazz smirks and rests his hands on Sunstreaker's helm, pulsing calm in his field. “What did you do?”  
  
Mirage folds his arms, plating slicking down tight to his frame, making him appear smaller. “I asked a question. Your partner was the one who chose to respond with his fists.”  
  
“And you think I'm stupid enough to believe you didn't expect that?” Jazz snorts, though he's careful to keep his voice soft. He doesn't want to wake Sunstreaker, who so rarely gets restful recharge as it is. “What were you trying to do?”  
  
“Make a point.”  
  
“Did you succeed?”  
  
Mirage, at least, has the decency to look him in the visor. “Yes.”  
  
It figures. Though it's hard to tell whether the mental games are part of some screwed noble upbringing, or part and parcel of being in Special Ops. Probably a bit of both, Jazz thinks.  
  
Annoyance winds through Jazz's spark. “Congratulations,” he says. “Try and keep your satisfaction to a minimum, however. Or I might decide that Bumblebee is better suited to succeed me.”  
  
Mirage's optics flare briefly, the only proof that he has been surprised. “Why would that matter? I have plenty of time to restore your good graces.”  
  
“Less than you think.” Jazz looks away, dismissal and chastisement, rolled into one.  
  
“Jazz--”  
  
“You'd better hurry. If Ratchet catches you off that medberth, you'll have more than Sunstreaker to worry about.”  
  
He leaves no room for arguing otherwise in his tone. It is one Mirage should recognize in a sparkbeat and obey.  
  
Jazz stares at his subordinate, gaze unfliching, until Mirage fuzzes out of existence. He's invisible, but not intangible and Jazz's finely tuned audials detect the bare wisp of Mirage's pedefalls as he retreats. And yes, retreat is what Jazz is going to call it.  
  
“You didn't have to threaten him.”  
  
It takes all of Jazz's self-control not to startle in surprise. He'd had no clue Sunstreaker had come online.  
  
“It wasn't a threat,” Jazz corrects, turning a smile down on his partner, whose slitted optics are dim. “It was a reminder.”  
  
“Semantics,” Sunstreaker retorts, his frame thrumming with a lazy energy, only the barest edges of his field betraying the anxiety about his uncertain future.  
  
Jazz waits for the complaints to set in, the mutterings about the dirty floor and and the scrapes in his armor and the telltale signs of interfacing on Sunstreaker's chestplate, sides, and thigh armor. Their absence indicates the level of worry Sunstreaker inhabits. A complaining Sunstreaker is one in a good mood, kind of like a snarling, tool-throwing Ratchet.  
  
Jazz rests his hand on Sunstreaker's chestplate, the sensors in his palm picking up the thrum and surge of Sunstreaker's spark beneath the thick metal. He's always thought it wasn't unlike the oceans here on Earth, rising and ebbing to a familiar rhythm.  
  
“I have an idea of what he was trying to accomplish. I don't approve. Thus the reminder,” Jazz replies, tracing his fingers over Sunstreaker's emblem, over and over.  
  
“He's your mech.”  
  
Jazz shakes his helm. “He's my subordinate and as good a friend as he can be considering that aspect of our relationship.” He catches Sunstreaker's gaze and holds it. “You are my mech and I've all but told Prime as much.”  
  
Sunstreaker's engine gives a soft rumble. “Risky.” Appreciation, however, lingers in his field.  
  
No one fights for Sunstreaker. Everyone expects him to finish his own battles and it's been a long time since he's had someone to watch his back.  
  
It's a slag good thing that he falls under Ironhide's command.  
  
Jazz shrugs. “The time was right. I should have said something sooner.”  
  
“I'm not mad that you didn't.”  
  
He doesn't have to be, Jazz thinks. Because he's mad enough at himself about it. He's blasted the command staff about their inability to actually pay attention to Sunstreaker, but when it comes down to it, Jazz hadn't the courage to vocalize the truth until recently.  
  
The sound of pedefalls makes Jazz stiffen, optics cutting with wary tension to the bars.  
  
Sunstreaker, however, reacts by scrambling to his own pedes, fruitlessly brushing at the scrapes and marks in his paint. His optics are zeroed in on the hall, as cold and brittle as ice, tension drawing a tight line down his plating.  
  
Jazz opts for casual disregard. He stays seated, slumping to make himself a bit more comfortable. If he's about to go down and cause a scene, he wants to make sure to put on a show.  
  
“Easy,” Jazz murmurs, feeling the whip-thin tension vibrating through Sunstreaker's energy field.  
  
Sunstreaker doesn't say anything, but his engine shifts to a lower idle which is the best Jazz can hope for right now.  
  
Jazz wonders who they will send, and then realized he should have known from the beginning. Who else would it be but Prowl?  
  
Sharp, Enforcer optics flick to the cell, taking in Sunstreaker's aggressive pose and Jazz's casual slump against the wall. He doesn't seem surprised to see Jazz there, but then again, Prowl could be shunting all of his emotional reactions to a buffer so he doesn't have to deal with them right now.  
  
“Well?” Sunstreaker prompts, when the silence stretches too long and Prowl seems content to stare.  
  
Jazz keeps his silence.  
  
Prowl glances at Sunstreaker, before he clasps his hands behind his back, just at the base of his doorwing juncture. “We have come to a decision,” he says, tone carefully neutral, and yeah, he's definitely running that buffer.  
  
“And?” Sunstreaker's hands draw into light fists.  
  
Jazz tilts his helm, engine purring. “Sunny,” he murmurs, just a warning, a reminder. _I'm here, stay calm, everything is going to be all right._  
  
It's a fragging lie, of course. Nothing is ever going to be all right, but they just might make it and that's what Jazz is pinning his hopes on.  
  
Prowl inclines his helm. “Mirage is refusing to report the incident, despite multiple witnesses and camera footage. We can, at most, declare this a disturbance to the peace. Though given the rate of past transgressions, punishment must still be given.”  
  
Jazz pushes himself to his pedes, leisurely stretching his arms and legs, working out the kinks the odd position had given him. Mirage must have grown a set of bearings, or realized how much he fragged everything up. Either the reminder had sufficed, or Mirage feels truly guilty. He can reason that out at a later date.  
  
“Punishment,” Jazz repeats, and his visor flashes. “Of what sort?”  
  
Prowl's doorwings twitch, barely visible but present nonetheless. Uh oh. Someone did not approve of the decision they've made together. “There are several parts, all of which you must agree to or we are forced to accept the alternative.”  
  
Sunstreaker's engine revs but he opts his silence.  
  
Jazz makes a vague gesture, folding his arms under his bumper. “Go on.”  
  
Prowl cycles a ventilation. “First, your expense account is suspended until further notice,” he says. “You can use the community entertainment, washing and waxing supplies, and various paraphernalia. But you will not be able to acquire anything further until such time as we deem fit to restore access.”  
  
Jazz winces. He glances at his partner, Sunstreaker's optics darkening with internal storm, but the frontliner merely jerks his head in semblance of a nod. Prowl takes this as permission to continue.  
  
“Second, your free time has been restricted by half. For hours which you are not on a scheduled shift, you are required to devote to community service of which will be determined by the officer-in-charge.”  
  
So far, nothing is unreasonable. Sunstreaker might think so, but Jazz doesn't. In fact, community service might be good for him. Or whatever the Autobots count as community service. Jazz hardly thinks they're going to send Sunstreaker to pick up trash off the side of the road.  
  
Then again...  
  
Sunstreaker's hands tighten into fists, but he nods yet again.  
  
So far, so good.  
  
“Third and final,” Prowl continues, “you are required to attend counseling with First Aid. You must attend weekly at a minimum until such time we discern that it is either a benefit or pointless.”  
  
Sunstreaker twitches. He ex-vents, a rattle going through his plating that's audible in the cell.  
  
Jazz knows he wants to protest. If there's one thing Sunstreaker hates outside of imperfection, it's talking about imperfection. And he knows that he's just about the most fragged up of the Autobots.  
  
“Do you agree?” Prowl asks.  
  
It's fair, Jazz thinks. Fairer than any one of them could have suspected. He reads the surprise in Sunstreaker's field, even accompanied by annoyance as it is. Sunstreaker wavers between feeling guilty and feeling slighted, and both emotions are justified.  
  
“Yes,” Sunstreaker says, and his vocalizer glitches. He audibly resets it with a grind of dissatisfied gears. “Yes, I agree.”  
  
“Very well.” Prowl steps to the side, indicating that Sunstreaker and Jazz are free to leave, though they could have done so at anytime of their own accord. “From this moment on, you are under probation, Sunstreaker. Any further incidents or attacks on your fellow Autobots, will be an automatic reassignment to Cybertron.”  
  
Sunstreaker whips toward Prowl, mouth opening, but the tactician holds up a hand, staving off the argument.  
  
“We will investigate all incidents for possible extenuating circumstances, but you must learn better self-control. That's all there is to it.”  
  
“It's fair, Sunny,” Jazz says, careful to keep his tone non-threatening as he falls into step behind his partner. “It's what I would have done.”  
  
“I know it's fair,” Sunstreaker says, just short of a snarl. “I don't have to fragging like it, though.”  
  
“Point,” Prowl concedes. “Right now, you can return to your quarters. I will be by later with the official paperwork for you to agree and sign.” He shifts his weight, gaze sliding to Jazz. “Jazz, a word, please.”  
  
He knew this was coming.  
  
“Yeah, I have the time.” Technically, Jazz is supposed to be on shift right now in the command center, but for all he knows, maybe that isn't relevant anymore.  
  
Sunstreaker, in the midst of heading back to his quarters, pauses and whirls back around. His optics narrow, hackles rising.  
  
Jazz shakes his helm, reaching up and cupping Sunstreaker's face briefly. Surprise flickers in Sunstreaker's field, and it's strong enough to force back the rising tide of defensive anger.  
  
“I'll be fine,” Jazz says. “Refuel. Recharge. And I'll be by later.”  
  
Sunstreaker's optics meet his, conveying without words, before he dips his helm in a curt nod. “I'll wait,” he says, and then steps back, out of Jazz's reach. His optics cut to Prowl, as if in warning, and then he's gone.  
  
Jazz waits until he is far from audial range before he folds his arms again and looks at Prowl, expectant. “So, am I to be punished, too?” What will they throw at him? Insubordination? Unethical ultimatums?  
  
Prowl scowls, an expression he spared Sunstreaker from. “You persist in making everything difficult, Jazz.”  
  
“Yeah, it's my special talent.” He smirks, arching an orbital ridge. “And you didn't answer my question.”  
  
Prowl starts to walk, leaving Jazz to fall in step beside him, his gaze focused on the hall ahead of them. “As you did nothing wrong, there is nothing to punish,” he says, but there's an edge to his tone. “You did, however, cause damage. The kind that is unrepairable by any medic.”  
  
Jazz's visor dims, considering. He has apologies to make, explanations to give and maybe, in the end, he'll demote himself. He'll wait until he's had a chance to have a sit down with Optimus before he makes that kind of decision.  
  
“But ya understand why I said what I said, right?”  
  
Prowl stops, abruptly whirling toward Jazz, his field a discordant brush against Jazz's own before he reels it in. “You put your relationship with Sunstreaker above the Autobots. You put Sunstreaker above the Autobots. What other interpretation can there be but the one we surmised?”  
  
“I put hope for existence beyond the war above the Autobots,” Jazz corrects, inclining his helm. Prowl can intimidate the soldiers all he wants, but Jazz isn't going to fall for it. “I'm gonna fight and keep on fighting. But there's no point in fighting if there's nothing afterward, Prowl. And that's the point I'm trying to make.”  
  
Prowl stares at him, for long enough that Jazz feels an itch under his armor, an urge to either walk away or start yelling just to make him stop.  
  
“You should report for your shift. I am sure Blaster is eager to be relieved,” Prowl says, and turns to walk away, a faster pace than he had used before. “We can continue this conversation later.”  
  
Jazz stares after him. Had his point been made or had he dodged a bullet? Sometimes, it's impossible to tell with Prowl.  
  
Jazz frowns.  
  
His comm chirps.  
  
Shaking his helm, Jazz reaches to respond. “I'm coming, Blaster,” he says, reassuring the communications mech. “Sorry I'm late.”  
  


o0o0o

  
  
Jazz pings Sunstreaker for admittance to the frontliner's single room, and is surprised when the door clicks open under his touch. Sunstreaker usually guards his privacy with a vicious ferocity. They haven't shared codes, not that Jazz couldn't break it if he tried.  
  
Sunstreaker is one of the few on the Ark who has his own room. They have very limited space, most mechs doubling or tripling up, but there are a couple who get their own space. Skyfire, for one, by virtue of being one of the largest Autobots. Sunstreaker should have a roommate, but Sideswipe chooses to share with Smokescreen and Tracks.  
  
It is one more example of a failed attempt to make the two brothers reconcile. Ratchet continues to petition for it, Red Alert keeps trying to encourage it, and nothing ever comes out of their machinations.  
  
Jazz pushes open the door, letting himself inside. Sunstreaker's got the single overhead light set to dim, and he's on his berth, datapad in hand. The aforementioned contract perhaps.  
  
“Hungry?” Jazz asks, holding up one of two cubes.  
  
“No.” Sunstreaker's fingers flick over the screen, turning pages.  
  
“Suit yourself.” Jazz stows the extra cube on Sunstreaker's console and tucks his own away. He's not undercharged either. “What did Prowl have to offer?”  
  
Sunstreaker pushes himself up on the berth and silently hands over the datapad, permission for Jazz to peruse it. He takes the 'pad, hopping up on the berth beside his partner and scrolling back to the beginning.  
  
It's a fairly simple contract, worded for Sunstreaker's comprehension rather than Prowl's unnecessarily complicated turn of phrase. It is standard as well, outlining the details regarding Sunstreaker's punishment, the terms of his probation and the consequences of breaking the agreement.  
  
Jazz stifles a laugh as he reads Sunstreaker's first community service assignment. How appropriate!  
  
“It's not funny,” Sunstreaker says, his tone dour.  
  
“It is a little,” Jazz replies and hands the datapad back over.  
  
Sunstreaker's first assignment is to repaint any Autobot on the Ark who is willing to request a repaint from him. Not only that, he is required to do a good job, which is a given, Jazz knows. There might be an Autobot or several that Sunstreaker doesn't like, but he'd scratch his own paint before he'd screw up his own efforts. Whether it's his own frame or someone else's, his work must be pristine.  
  
“It suits you,” Jazz adds, knocking his shoulder against his partner's. “And you can't tell me that it's abhorrent.”  
  
Sunstreaker scowls, tossing the datapad onto his desk and causing it to skitter across the surface, nearly hitting the floor. “It's humiliating.”  
  
“No. It's humbling,” Jazz corrects. His field loosens, pulsing against Sunstreaker's, projecting the relief and affection that he's been harboring all day.  
  
Much to his pleasure, Sunstreaker relaxes against him, tension easing out of his frame. “Are you saying I'm arrogant?”  
  
“Only to some.” Jazz turns his helm, brushing his lips over Sunstreaker's shoulder spar. It's not a sensual touch, but the tantalizing landscape of Sunstreaker's neck is only inches away. “It worked out for the best.”  
  
Sunstreaker's helm dips, his gaze focused on the floor. “You shouldn't have said that, Jazz.” His hands scrape down his thighs, gripping his knees.  
  
“Too bad for you it was my decision to make.” He nips a longer path up Sunstreaker's armor, brushing his collar fairing. “And I meant it.”  
  
He feels the subtle tremor race through Sunstreaker's plating, the frontliner's fingers briefly clenching his knee joints before relaxing. He turns toward Jazz, their forehelms brushing.  
  
For Sunstreaker, it's the closest thing to an admission of affection, even if he claims to not knowing the meaning of the emotion.  
  
“You know,” Jazz continues, because he just threw it all out their for the command staff to see so he might as well keep on truckin'. “My quarters are a bit too big and these are way too small.”  
  
Sunstreaker's ventilations hitch. “Isn't that against the rules?”  
  
“Sunny, we've been breaking rules since the first time I came back,” Jazz says with a little chuckle, dragging a fingertip down the frontliner's nearest thigh. “I don't think it matters anymore. Not after that stunt I pulled.”  
  
Sunstreaker makes a noncommittal noise, offlining his optics.  
  
“Why?” Jazz prompts. “You don't want to share quarters with me?”  
  
A hand captures Jazz's own, fingers curling with his in a soft gesture that's unlike Sunstreaker but very welcome. “I didn't say that.”  
  
“Then are ya saying yes?”  
  
Sunstreaker squeezes his hand. “Yeah. I guess I am.”  
  
“Guess?” Jazz's mouth quirks with amusement. “You don't sound certain.” He leans against Sunstreaker, the buzz of their mingling energy fields sending a light warmth through his systems. “Anything I can do to change that?”  
  
“I can think of a few things,” Sunstreaker purrs.  
  
They don't talk much after that.  
  
Then again, Jazz thinks, everything important has already been said.  
  


***

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Once](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2713910) by [dracoqueen22](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dracoqueen22/pseuds/dracoqueen22)
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